


Red Bedroom Records

by chelou



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, One Shot, Record store au, he has black hair, he's also a disaster, imagine eliott kind of punk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 19:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelou/pseuds/chelou
Summary: He’s fucking trying, but the only thing going through his brain right now are lips, cheekbones, and blue. The guy hasn’t even left the store yet before he’s already started to invade Eliott’s thoughts to the point where he can’t think of literally anything else.Or,Lucas comes into the record shop where Elliot works and turns him into a complete mess.





	Red Bedroom Records

**Author's Note:**

> okay so the title comes from oth even though it's a shop, not a label. 
> 
> & thanks so fucking much to my beta @confusedconnor cuz he's super great

When Eliott was younger he used to sneak into the garage at his house while his mom wasn’t home and go through all of his dad's old records. Crates upon crates upon _ crates _ , all packed up tight with records, any album you could think of. Artists and genres, varying years. It was almost never ending, the collection. 

His dad had died in a car accident just after Eliott turned 7. It was hard on him and his mother both, but Eliott was still fairly young at the time so he adjusted to it differently than she did. The first few months she would check in on him, ask how he was doing, how he was feeling. Then it gradually got less and less often until eventually she just stopped, and soon after that any topic of Papa Demaury became a taboo. He wasn’t asked about or mentioned in anyway - Eliott wasn’t allowed to. Apparently it was too painful a subject for his mother, which would explain why it wasn’t long after this started occurring that she began packing up all of the things around the house that reminded her of her husband. From his body wash in the shower, to his clothing in the closet, to the recliner that he sat in every night after dinner. It was like all of it just disappeared… as long as Eliott didn’t open up the white door that lead to the garage. Because his mother would never,  _ ever  _ even think about getting rid of a single ounce of it, no matter how much it hurt. So, it was easier to pack it away in a part of the house that was never really occupied that much anyways, than it was to look at it every day and be reminded of what once was and no longer is. 

He was aware of the fact that his father’s belongings were accessible to him (if he went against his mother’s wishes), has been since they were first put there, he just-- he doesn’t know why it took him so long to finally gain the strength that he needed to venture inside. Before, he’d catch himself standing in front of the door, staring up at it with wide eyes, his mind running a million miles a minute. He was intimidated by it, a constant looming presence. Never allowed to be opened, but always so tempting. 

Until one day, he finally decided to just  _ do it.  _ 10 years old and his mother had left him alone for an hour or so while she went to the store. Protocol for this was locking himself in her bedroom, safe and sound until she got back. Eliott never understood why her room was supposedly more secure than his, but he went anyway. Except this day he waited for the sound of her car starting up, subtly peeking out of the blinds in the windows every couple of seconds until she drove away, and as soon as he knew he was in the clear, he made his escape.

There was no apprehension in opening the door, no hesitation as he wrapped his skinny fingers around the handle and pushed open. No sort of pausing when he was actually in and made his way around the corner. But if he thought the door itself was intimidating, he had no idea what awaited him on the other side. Boxes stacked up to the ceiling, the old armchair set in the corner. It was an overwhelming sight to take in, and it made Eliott’s head spin. 

He wasn’t sure where to start first, but he didn’t want to drag a bunch of shit out because he only had a limited amount of time to do this. His eyes scanned over everything, the fact that this was his father’s entire life, more or less, packed into a bunch of cardboard was just-- mind boggling. Everything he owned, everything that made him who he was just  _ right here.  _ Hidden away in the dark and collecting dust. 

Eliott slowly and leisurely made his way over to the chair. He ran his fingers along the headrest, skimmed over the stains. He thought about sitting down, just plopping right in the middle, but something stopped him. Taking a deep breath, he looked up to the other side of the garage, on the opposite walls of the boxes and that’s when he saw the records. Almost as many baskets as there were boxes. Eliott doesn’t know how he missed them when he walked in. 

The shortest stack off to the side - that’s where he picked from. Dragging it into the floor as he sat down in front of it, criss cross applesauce and began carding through. He pulled them out, one by one studying each cover, turning it over to look at the back, the list of songs. For some reason he was amazed by them all. It made him feel more in touch with his father than he has since he lost him. He doesn’t know how long he sat on the cold concrete just staring at each album, appreciating them, wondering if he’d ever have a chance to listen to them. 

He had just finished going through his second crate, reaching for his third when he heard a car pull in, so he hastily packed everything back away but not before stealing a couple for himself. Leaving the entirety of it all exactly how it was before, though he isn’t totally sure it would matter since his mother never comes in here anyways. Quickly, he’s out of the garage and dashing across the house back to where he’s supposed to be. 

After that he took every opportunity he was given to sneak back in. Turns out the Bakhellal’s had a record player at their house that they would let him use, and everytime he went over there he brought one to listen to. When he turned 14, he saved up enough birthday money to buy his  _ own  _ stereo, and had somehow convinced his mother to let him get it. Even then, after years of doing this it was still a secret that he’d listen to his dad’s albums. 

And it wasn’t the music in itself that he enjoyed, because sure, there were music apps and youtube that he could listen to on his phone whenever he wanted. What he loved was the feeling that came with placing a record onto the platter, letting the side play out before turning it over and listening to the back. Hearing the  _ tck, tck, tck, tck  _ when it was over and he was too lazy to change it. It was a different experience, it made him feel like he was going back in time. 

His favorite thing about it though, was how close he felt with his dad. The man obviously loved music, had a passion for collecting if he had _this many albums_ and everything was in such great condition. Eliott almost felt like he was carrying on some sort of legacy, like he was taking it into his own hands, like it was somehow passed down to him and it was _his job_ to care for them. He felt like, in a way, he was making his father proud by doing this. 

Sometimes he felt like he was learning more about the man by going through his own music, than he would if he ever conjured up the nerve to ask his mom about him. Though, he doesn’t think that will ever happen. Especially since this is all still a huge secret from her. 

He’s getting a lot better at hiding it, always turning the volume down as low as it would go, just enough for him to hear within the small confines of his room. At first he’d only risk it if he was having an off day - feeling sad or down; if he was particularly more tired than usual; if one day the memory of losing his dad was harder to bear than most. Then he figured, she doesn’t catch him as often as those days were becoming, so why would it be any different than if he were having a good day? And thus, there was hardly ever a point where he was home and  _ not  _ cramped in his room with his stereo. 

His obsession with music only served to grow when he turned 16, trudged down to the record shop a couple blocks from his house, and begged the owner for a job. He already spent a good amount of time there anyway, it was the perfect opportunity. 

And now, 3 years later, he’s still there, loving the job for everything that it is. Every day of it. Even if some of the customers tend to get on his nerves quite a bit - like, the 60 year old men that come in sporting ponytails and biker jackets, and take one look at Eliott and immediately assume that he’s just some 19 year old kid who doesn’t know shit about music and is just working here because it’s convenient for him. If Eliott was going to work anywhere out of convenience, it certainly wouldn’t be this place. As much as he adores it, the pay is shit. 

It’s pretty satisfying however, when the old men think it would be amusing to test Eliott’s knowledge on 80’s rock and he cockily, absolutely fucking destroy’s them. Answering all of their bullshit questions, always surprising them. It never fails to trigger a certain smugness from deep within him when he sees the looks on their faces as he proves them wrong. 

He would prefer them over one of the other types of customers, though - the damn hipster millennials who are in every so often with their checkerboard vans, way too tight skinny jeans, and oversized cardigans. It’s always so clear to Eliott that they’re not here for the music, or the nostalgia that comes with listening to old records, but the  _ aesthetic.  _ With their cameras wrapped around their necks and their stupid iced coffees. The way they just stand in the back and take boomerangs on their phones and then never buy anything. It’s beyond annoying and extremely irritating. 

Eliott fully expects that with the 2 guys who just walked in now. Both of their backs are turned towards him, and when the bell dings with their arrival he greats a halfhearted, “Welcome to Red Bedroom Records, let me know if I can help with anything today,” because he refuses to give 100% when they aren’t even going to appreciate the place anyways. 

The taller of the two guys, dark skinned in a red jacket with a grey sweatshirt underneath, half turns to Eliott and waves, mumbling a  _ thanks _ . The other guy he’s with doesn’t acknowledge Eliott at all, so he goes back to hunching over the counter and lazily flips through a magazine as he leans on his elbows. He can’t really hear their conversation, not that he’s really trying to anyways, he couldn’t care. But it’s kind of difficult not to overhear when the shorter boy lets out a boisterous laugh, throwing his head back. Eliott can’t help but recognize the beauty of it. 

They walk around the store for a couple more minutes, clearly having no idea what they’re doing, and yet Eliott tries his best to focus on the magazine he’s reading. He’s only seen little slivers of the boy’s face, and if it’s anything as beautiful as his laugh, Eliott is  _ interested,  _ but he’s not going to be that weird creepy guy at the checkout who flirts with the customers… is what he had initially decided, except after a few more agonizing moments of watching these two mindlessly stroll around, Eliott makes the choice to approach. After all, it  _ is _ his job to offer his assistance. 

In the CD section, both of their backs turned towards the rest of the store, Eliott idles behind them for a short second, hands clasped behind his back as he sways back and forth on his feet. He clears his throat. The slight jump in both of their shoulders amuses him and he attempts to keep the wide grin from spreading across his lips, but he fails when they both spin around. “Oh, fuck, dude you scared us,” the taller laughs. 

Eliott puts his hand up, takes a step back as he bows his head in a chuckle. “My apologies,” and that’s when he allows himself to shift his gaze over a mere 6 inches or so, land on bright blue eyes that stare up at him widely, full of curiosity. Eliott looks away after several seconds, addresses the other stranger. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

“We’re looking for  _ Station to Station.”  _

“Bowie?” A nod. “Ah, a CD or…” he purses his lips, looking between the two but he catches those damned blue ones again and pauses involuntarily, words stopping short in his throat as he chokes on them. He can feel his face heating up, and he quickly averts his eyes. “So a CD?” Eliott looks back over at the friend in hopes for some sort of response to the question so that he can busy himself and not seem like a complete idiot, but the guys’ attention is on the shorter boy and Eliott has no choice but to do the same. 

“Ah, CD would be best,” he speaks quietly, and Eliott’s lips form into a grin before he knows what's happening. 

“Right.” He maneuvers around them to get to the CD’s. It doesn’t take long to see that there aren’t currently any copies of that particular album out, but he makes sure to look extra close anyways. “Uhm, it doesn’t look like we have it,” he informs as he stands to turn back around, and when he faces the two boys again he doesn’t quite know what they were doing but they hastily shove their arms back by their sides. Eliott shifts his eyes between them suspiciously, but doesn’t comment on it. “I can go check in the back if you’d like?” 

The shorter opens his mouth to respond but his friend has other ideas, answering for him, “That would be great, thank you!” And maybe his words were a bit too enthusiastic, smile a tad too wide. 

“Uh-- sure, okay,” Eliott agrees, stepping past them once more to head to the back. The room isn’t that far away from where they were all standing, and Eliott intentionally leaves the door open just a crack while he searches. It’s not that he was aiming to eavesdrop, per se, but if he  _ happened to over hear what they were saying to each other with a door that wasn’t quite shut all the way,  _ then so be it. 

Unfortunately, it would appear that his plan failed, because while he could hear their whispers and harsh mumbles, he could barely make out what their actual words were enough to form a sentence, and then he just plain gives up while he rummages through boxes of spare CD’s since it’s definitely too loud to actually make something coherent out of it. He comes up short and tries not to show his disappointment too much when he makes his way back towards his customers. 

He’s coming down the aisle over, empty hands shoved in his pockets and head bowed as he watches his shoes hit the ground with each step, when he hears a sharp exclaim in a hushed tone, _ “Just fucking do it,” _ and then in response to that, 

_ “Are you insane? Look at him, there’s no way,”  _

_ “Lucas! Stop being so fucking dense. The dude’s into you, I’m telling you.”  _

Eliott stops his strides right before turning, he leans against the shelves that are just tall enough to cover his head, and beams proudly to himself. This is not spying, this is -- passing by a conversation that is coincidentally about him and it’s not like he can just shut his ears off, okay? Plus, this is a good thing. Now he knows he has a shot… not that he’s brave enough to take it, but he might be. 

Taking a deep breath, he casually appears in the next aisle, like he didn't stop to listen in, and the first thing that he sees when his eyes land on the two is the taller playfully shoving the other, who hisses a hasty,  _ “Fuck off,”  _ right before they both look up to the movement coming from the corners of their eyes.  _ Lucas,  _ Eliott has learned is the smaller’s name, stands up straight when he spots Eliott, acts natural, cool, nonchalant. He’s the one Eliott addresses when he speaks this time, “Uhm, I’m sorry, we don't have any in the back either.” 

“Oh, uh-- you know, that's okay, we can probably just find it some--” 

“Nonsense,” his friend butts in to rest an elbow on Lucas’ shoulder and Lucas glares at him. “Do you know when you’ll get more?” 

Eliott can't seem to stop his eyes from shifting back and forth curiously between the two. He’s trying to figure out what the game is here. Is this Lucas interested? Is he not? Why is he so annoyed with his friend? Personally, Eliott likes the guy. He’s pushy, but not for his own sake - for Lucas’. 

Eliott flicks his shoulders up before crossing his arms across his chest. “I can probably pull some strings, get you one within a few days.” 

“Did you hear that, Lu? He’s gonna pull some strings.” It’s loud and ardent, but there's a clear hint of mirth laced within his tone when he grabs Lucas’ shoulder excitedly and shakes him a little. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?” 

“Eliott,” he holds out his hand. 

_ “Eliott,  _ hm. Well I’m Yann,” he places a hand on his chest. “And this is Lucas,” he points a finger. 

“Nice to meet you Lucas, Yann,” he may have focused on the former just a little longer than the latter, and it was dumb of him to assume that he could perhaps have gotten away with it - subtlety was never his strong suit - so when his eyes dart back to Yann’s, there’s a knowing glint in his brown irises that makes Eliott duck his head to hide the pink tint to his cheeks. “Uh, so I’ll just--” his gestures to the front counter, “Yeah.”

He stays behind the register for the rest of the time, too embarrassed to try and offer any more help since apparently he can’t even do that. He doesn’t return to the magazine, instead slouching down in the chair with his boot clad feet propped on the flat top as he attempts to read an actual book this time. Virginia Woolf’s  _ To the Lighthouse.  _ It’s one of his favorites, and it usually does a pretty great job at distracting him, only, today it’s not  _ quite  _ meeting the desired expectations. Eliott’s eyes are following the words scattered about on the pages, he’s reading them in his head, even mouthing along to them, but he’s not taking a single thing in. If he hadn’t already read this 5 times before, he wouldn’t have the first clue as to what’s happening. 

He’s  _ fucking trying,  _ but the only thing going through his brain right now is  _ lips, _ and  _ cheekbones, _ and  _ blue. _ This isn’t a typical thing that occurs during his days at work. He doesn’t crush on the customers, he doesn’t pine over them, he doesn’t get attached, and certainly not after barely 3 words muttered to each other in a 2 minute interaction. The guy hasn’t even left the store yet before he’s already started to invade Eliott’s thoughts to the point where he can’t think of literally anything else. This is ridiculous, it should be too soon for Eliott to even  _ think  _ about forming an opinion. They’re  _ strangers.  _ It hasn’t even been 15 minutes since he and his friend first entered the store and thus taking over Eliott’s entire life. 

_ Get a grip,  _ Eliott chastises himself. One, he’s being dramatic, and two, he’s being fucking creepy. 

He huffs a frustrated sigh, disappointed in himself, and adjusts himself in his seat as he takes another attempt at reading. However, his eyes begin moving on their own accord, drifting away from the crinkled pages of the old novel, and seeking out the floppy haired kid from the other side of the store. Minutes could have passed by,  _ hours,  _ and Eliott never would have noticed that he was staring, too caught up in the beauty that he was so unabashedly appreciating like a fucking stalker, if said beauty didn’t whirl his head around in the most marginal of movements and caught his eye. As soon as Eliott realizes his own actions, he jerks his head away so fast he thinks he might have given himself whiplash. 

It’s unfortunate, really, the way he underestimates the rate at which he moves, and in the haze of trying  _ not  _ to look like an idiot, swivels around so fast that he ends up unable to stop himself from crashing into shelves behind him. Luckily, only a small amount of things dropped, nothing easily breakable, but the incident in itself made a loud enough crash that there was absolutely no way it went unnoticed. 

“Fucking A,” he mutters to himself as he bends down to pick everything up. How the hell is he supposed to face Lucas after that? The guy probably thinks he’s some dorky clutz now. “Dammit.” 

Running fingers through his black locks, he stands back up and sets the fallen items back where they belong. Another sigh and he turns back around, only to find those same fucking blue eyes peering up at him. Lucas’ lips are folded between his teeth and it’s odd because there’s a very clear mixture of awkwardness, and trying to hold in a laugh. Eliott isn’t quite sure what to think of that, but he does know that his face is indubitably the color of a fucking beet right now, if the sudden heat coursing through the upper half of his body is anything to go by. 

Immediately, he begins glancing around for Yann, and he can’t tell if it’s for a fucking buffer or because he’s worried about being completely mortified in front of not one, but  _ two  _ people. It’s still undecided when he hears the bell above the door ding and when he shoots his head that way, Yann’s waving at him with a huge smile and bidding a tickled, “It was nice meeting you Eliott,” in farewell as he exits the shop. 

Just the two of them at this point - Lucas and Eliott. The only noise to be heard is Neil Young’s  _ Heart of Gold  _ that’s playing softly through the speakers above them. 

Eliott clears his throat nervously, “Are you ready to check out?” 

“I am,” he holds out a cassette tape for  _ The Clash  _ and it eases Eliott’s mind a little, makes him laugh on the inside because he’s surprised. He wouldn’t have pegged the guy to be a  _ Clash  _ fan, or to buy it on a cassette, no less, but here it is. Even though if there’s one thing working in a record shop has taught him, it’s to not assume people’s music tastes based on their looks. 

“So, did you find everything okay today?” On the inside, he’s cursing himself. On the one hand, it’s safer to just go about this like it’s some regular ole boring customer and just be polite, give the usual spiel like he was hired to do, but on the other hand, this isn’t just some regular ole boring customer. It’s fucking  _ Lucas.  _ And what if  _ Lucas  _ thinks Eliott’s the regular, boring one? 

Regular, boring,  _ and  _ clumsy? This is shit. 

Lucas doesn’t say anything, just bites his lip in a smile as Eliott hands him back the tape in a small plastic bag. “Is that--”

“Eliott,” the shorter cuts him off, and Eliott is half grateful for it because he has no idea where he’s going with this, and half because he’s already made a fool of himself enough so it was time for Lucas to step in… even if only to end this without any further embarrassment. 

“Yes?”

A pause, and then, “Are you doing anything tonight?” 

“…I am not,” his heart is actually beating a hundred miles a minute right now. 

Lucas seems pleased with that. He nods, “Me neither.” 

_ No?  _ “Oh,” is all he responds because he wants to ask, but he doesn’t know if Lucas is playing at the same thing. Not until the guy raises an expectant eyebrow and Eliott jolts forward. “ _ Oh.  _ Uh… Do-- Do you want to do something then? I mean--  _ together,  _ like--” 

“Eliott.” 

“Yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

_ Yes.  _ Eliott whispers to himself giddily.  _ Yes.  _


End file.
